And often seem to stop-
When smashed by boulders on the road
As flying banshees screech overhead
And the troubles of struggle begin-
To escalate into dangers of the unknown
The carefree wonder aimlessly,
Given to posturing
And through idleness unaware,
As to the truth of blindness.
The smattering of cold hard rain-
On the window panes of the psyche,
Is always explained away,
As the sound of a little air-
Though broken glass should give warning
To the dangers of imminent realities.
J.Bibi
